| I Killed Jim Jones, Prologue |
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Faithful disciple, my ass, I muttered. A Judas,
was more like it. I tucked the scribbled note back in the envelope and dropped
it in the cardboard carton along with the other documents and tapes. This was
the second time I stopped to read the note by flashlight, idiotically expecting
the message to change, releasing me from my burden. Self-disgust ate away at
me, like acid reflux in my throat. I doubled over to puke again, and the bitter
mix of phlegm and bile triggered a coughing fit. By now, I had vomited out all
traces of my last meal—any vestige of self respect, too. I was a cast off molt
of my former self. A living shell. A sham. Anything but human. I loathed myself
for letting the massacre happen.
Forgive me, my darling, I silently
muttered, recalling Ophelia’s last gasps as she died in my arms. I brushed the
tears from my eyes with the side of my forefinger. I’d make it up to her
somehow, perhaps by burning a candle within my mind as perpetual memorial to
her.
As if in
answer to my vow, I heard her sweet voice say, No need to fault yourself, Dwight. I wanted to die—for Father, for my
brothers and sisters, for the Cause.
But you were so young, I countered. You had your whole life ahead of you. We
could’ve had a wonderful life together.
Then
another memory burst forth.
“How much I loved you,” Jim Jones began at
the emergency meeting hours ago, his voice cracking and its tone weary. “How
much I tried to give you a good life.”
Except for sporadic shouts of “We
love you, too, Father,” responses by the listeners were tentative, fearful and
expectant.
“We’re sitting on a powder keg,” our
self-appointed Bishop continued. “Our enemies are about to attack.”
Everybody understood who are enemies
were—the army of mercenaries hired by the C.I.A. to slaughter us and torture
our children. All because of our beliefs in socialism. But I had no idea at the
time what Jones really had in mind. This likely was another one of his endless
rants. Another fake suicide rehearsal. Another melodramatic performance in the
pavilion.
So why didn’t I kill the bastard once the truth dawned on
me? At the very least, I could’ve tipped over the barrel of Flavor-Aid laced
with cyanide. One solitary act of outright defiance might’ve prompted the
others to come to their senses. Sure, his guards might’ve shot me, but it
wasn’t death I feared. My inaction befuddled me. Patriotism was the reason, I
told myself, ennobling my motives. Freedom and democracy, too. Why not add motherhood, God and country
while you’re at it? An invisible skeptic in my head mocked. The sarcasm cut
through my rationalizations. Truth was, I simply didn’t have to guts to thwart
the man—our communal leader, a living God, who we once believed had led us to
the Promised Land. All along, I had deluded myself about my independence while,
really, I had been under his spell—and blinded by my mission, too. Even so,
none of that excused my failure to save my beloved Ophelia.
Instead of any protesting roars of thunder, dimming of stars
or deluge of rain, the heavens remained remarkably apathetic to the events
below. Up above, a full-moon peeked out from behind a curtain of clouds,
feigning ignorance of the recent cataclysm. Suddenly, I felt exposed, under a
spotlight, and in danger. In the distance, the haunting cries of the howler
monkeys, like transitions in a Bach fugue, segued into the moans, shrieks and
cries of mothers trying to console their convulsing children. Moments later,
these sounds were interrupted by the distant crack of gunfire. Or was it
thunder? Then I thought I heard voices
shouting. Who could they be shooting at? Maybe I wasn’t the only one left
alive. Perhaps they now were hunting down the security guards who had killed
the Congressman and his retinue at the airstrip. Or maybe they were trying to
flush me out—whoever They were.
Only one thing I knew with certainty. No one who had
witnessed what happened could remain alive.
For caution, I dropped to the ground, seeking cover in this
cultivated field of cassava shrubs. Up ahead, less than one hundred yards away,
was the protective darkness of the jungle. I began snaking my way commando
style along the ground on my elbows and belly, silently cursing whenever the
knapsack on my back got caught in the damnable shrubs. Cassava, yuck! How I had
grown to hate all the flavorless concoctions—the bread, tapioca pudding, gruel,
soups and whatnot—made from the pulverized tubers and leaves of that devious
plant. What irony, too, that this foodstuff that helped keep us alive also,
when eaten raw, contained hydrogen cyanide, a relative of the same deadly
poison Jones got everybody but me to swallow.
“We
better not have any of our children left when it’s over because, I’m telling
you, they’ll parachute in on us, cruelly torture our dearest ones, …” Jim Jones
warned.
Stealthily
I began fading into the shadows like a sylph, preparing for the unthinkable.
The scene was too bizarre to be real.
“What we
need to do,” the madman raved, “is let the seniors take the potion first. Like
they used to do in ancient Greece. So they can step over quietly into a new
existence. Remember, this is a revolutionary act, not suicide. We’re doing this
to save humanity.”
What
bullshit! His reasoning violated every law of logic. Yet his audience was rapt,
nodding, murmuring, “Let’s get it over with.” “Right on.” “What we waiting
for?” Only one lone voice of dissent among the members, which was soon drowned
out by the faithful. I kept my silence, too, paralyzed by my sense of
inevitability.
Incredulous,
I knew now this was no bluff. Doomsday was here.
About halfway to the impenetrable fortress of trees and
vegetation ahead, I heard the crackling noise again—rifle shots or thunder?—now
farther off. So maybe it was not me they were after. Still wary, I rose to my
feet and, crouching, tried to keep pace with my shadow that kept scampering
well ahead of me at times for the cover of the jungle. Walking on the nearby
road to Port Kaituma was dangerous, so I opted instead for the footpath
paralleling it. Once I located the trail, I pressed onward into the darkness,
illumined sporadically by sprinklings of moonlight penetrating the dense canopy
of leaves stretching over the treetops. I clutched a machete in one hand, a
flashlight in the other. What I needed most now was to rest, hydrate myself,
and eat something. Finally, beyond exhaustion, I perched on a broken tree limb
and dropped the knapsack beside me. Putting my implements aside, I swigged down
the rest of the water in my canteen in one gulp, barely enough to sustain me on
my trek. I then groped for the remains of the stale bread in my knapsack. My
mouth was so dry that the crumbs felt like glass spicules on my tongue and
stuck in my throat. Unable to spit them out or swallow them, I tossed the rest
of the loaf away during my coughing fit.
A mistake. In my haste, I had parked myself on a decaying
log. The scent of the food now served as a clarion call for every insect in the
vicinity. Within seconds, I was besieged on all fronts: red ranger ants,
mosquitoes and flies. I shot up from my treacherous perch and began blindly
swatting and slapping at them with my hands. Once I began to feel their stings
and bites through my sweat drenched shirt and khaki shorts, I realized the
futility of my efforts. Best to press on. Maybe I could outrun these invaders.
As I trudged on, I began to hear a pitter-patting sound
overhead. Soon a few cool drops of rain trickled down my face. Moments later, a
torrential downpour, accompanied by growls of thunder, tore open the arboreal
awning and drenched me. Visibility became impossible, even with my flashlight.
Chilled and shivering, I slogged on as best I could since there was no place to
take shelter. My boots now had become large suction cups on the muddy ground,
making it difficult to lift my feet. Minutes later, the rain stopped as
abruptly as it began, though drops kept trickling down from the leaves. Only
then did I realize that the pesky insects were gone—and my failure to collect
some precious water in my canteen.
By now the beaten down bushes and fallen branches made
travel along the narrow footpath even more difficult in parts. A saving grace was
that the heavy rain had torn rents in the umbrella of leaves above, letting
beams of moonlight shine through. Slogging along the mucky path, I now had to
do battle with the thorny undergrowth on either side of me. The muggy air and
the stifling smell of decaying matter in the steamy jungle made it hard to
breathe. As I rounded a bend, my foot caught on a hidden root. I plunged
headlong into a patch of interwoven vines and brambles, entrapping me like
trick straw finger holders that tightened their grip the harder I pulled. I
tried with my machete to hack my way out of this tangle of clutching tentacles.
As I whacked away, my mind turned again to that horrific scene of dying men and
women, grabbing at me with outstretched arms and pleading for relief.
You’re
freaking out, I told myself. Just as I hacked my way free from the
vegetation, I had to extricate myself from these entrapping memories. Escape
was all that mattered now.
Slowly and methodically, I wrested myself loose from my
quasi-straitjacket. As I began to rise, I heard a noise nearby, the rustle of
leaves followed by the snapping of a branch. I reached for my flashlight, but
the battery was dead. By now the background static of the jungle had stilled.
Only my heavy breathing was audible in the eerie silence. Danger was nearby. My
eyes squinted into the graying darkness, trying to sharpen my vision. My mind
raced with frightening possibilities. A jaguar could be stalking me. A deadly
fer-de-lance was slithering along nearby. Jim Jones still could be alive,
resurrected, as he prophesized, and was hunting me down himself. The
impossibility of this notion sobered me. The splattered, bloody flecks of his
brain on my arm hours ago were all too real. Finally rationality prevailed. My
imagination was running amok. The noise was natural. After a heavy rain, trees
keeled over, limbs dropped and leaves fell. All sorts of creatures, mostly
harmless, left their shelters again in search of food. I had to collect myself.
Only three more miles to go. Once in Port Kaituma, I’d find a way to get to
Georgetown. Afterwards, I’d board the plane home. I would put an end to all
these years of duplicity. I’d had enough. More than enough. More than any
person should have to endure.
Just as I secured the shoulder straps of my knapsack and got
ready to move on, two glowing eyes appeared and began coming towards me,
paralyzing me in their glare. Even before I could react, a voice called out,
“Don’t move or you’re dead!” When the eyes dilated further, I realized they
were large flashlights, held hip high by each of the two approaching figures in
uniform. In their other hand they held pistols pointed at me. As one of the men
moved by me, I caught sight of his beret. The next moment I felt a dull thud on
the back of my head. My knees buckled under me. Ophelia’s startled face flashed
before me. Then oblivion.
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I awoke to full consciousness inside a cubic room with white
soundboard covering the walls. Turning over on my side, I gently fingered the
sore lump on the back of my skull. Then I propped myself up on my elbow to get
a better look of the room. Aside from my mattress, the bare bone furnishings
consisted of a chamber pot, a table, and a chair. On the opposite wall was a four-by-six
foot, one-way mirror. Beside it was a wooden door with a covered metal slot at
the bottom. A bank of four bright spotlights hung from the ceiling. As far as I
could tell, there no light switch. As I struggled to get to my feet, a wave of
dizziness made me hesitate before straightening up. Only when I saw myself in
the mirror did I fully realize I was naked. What was going on? My head ached,
making it hard to think. I formed an awning with my hands above my eyebrows and
tried unsuccessfully to peer inside the window. “Hello,” I shouted, and rapped
on the window. No answer. I went to the door and pulled the metal handle. It
was locked.
As I stood there, pondering my situation, I heard a deep,
hollow voice from up above. “Good, Mister Urban, you are up. The sedation we
gave you must have worn off.”
My thighs hugged each other and my shoulders hunched forward
as my crisscrossed hands shot down to cover my genitals. “Who are you, where am
I?” I asked, addressing the overhead microphone instead of my unseen observer
watching me from behind my distorted reflection in the one-way mirror.
“Your location does not matter. For your own safety, it is
better that you not know or see us.”
“Am I a p-p-prisoner?” I stammered.
“Let us say, you are our guest. We are sorry about your
clothes and the accommodations, but considering what happened, we cannot take a
chance. As you must know, almost one thousand of your fellow members killed
themselves in Jonestown almost a week ago. Also, a number of well known people
were murdered on the airstrip. A mother in Georgetown, too, slit the throats of
her three children and then committed suicide. We cannot take a chance of you
taking your own life. That is why you will be under constant surveillance until
you finish your task.”
“Task?” I repeated, and let my arms fall to the side.
“Because of the scopolamine you may not recall our sessions
with you. Your problem speaking fluently made interviews with you difficult.
You were found to have many important documents in your possession, along with
books of shorthand notes we had trouble deciphering. Therefore, we are
requesting that you write out your report. Only you can shed light on certain
matters related to Jonestown.”
The very mention of Jonestown evoked horrendous images in my
mind. Ophelia’s ghastly death, too. I squeezed my eyelids shut and munched my
lips together to keep from sobbing.
“We realize many of your recollections will be upsetting,
but that cannot be helped,” the voice commented, responding to my distress.
“Simply put, we want you to prepare a complete, thorough report for us
detailing all your personal observations and conclusions from the moment you
first met the Reverend Jim Jones until the time of your recent apprehension. As
you may have noticed, we have provided you with a typewriter and a ream of
paper. Also, on the table, to help jog your memory, you will find copies of
your notebooks and documents.”
When I first came to, I wondered if I had have fallen in the
hands of the Guyanese army. But the choice of words, precision of speech and
slight Bostonian accent suggested the voice belonged to a well-educated
American.
“How long do I have to do it?” I asked.
“As long as it takes. You will not have personal contacts
with anybody during this time so you can be completely alone with your own
thoughts and memories. In the meanwhile, you will be given two meals a day
along with water through the slot in the door. You also can dispose of your
waste from there once a day. Toilet paper will be made available for you, too.
The sooner you complete the task, the sooner you can be debriefed. We urge you
to be completely honest since we have ways of determining the truth. If your
report does not meet with our approval, you will regret it. Please do not try
to fast or harm yourself in any way. We then will have to put you in restraints
and force feed you.”
Realizing I might never leave this room alive, I asked the
disembodied voice, “When can I begin?”
“Now if you wish.”
Though my head ached, not so much now from the concussion
but from an effort to keep the memories buried, I was eager to start. Even if
my account might never see the light of day, I had to make sense out of what
transpired. For once in my life, I would tell the truth, the whole truth, so
help me God, though I’d be violating my vow of confidentiality. My original aim
in escaping was to let the world know what happened, much as Jones asked me to
do before changing his mind. My plan now would be more modest. The very act of
having somebody, anybody, read my story, even if the person didn’t want the
truth known, would validate it. I had to make sense of what happened. Ophelia
might be dead, but she was alive inside me, and I had to explain to her why I
didn’t do what I should have.
Glancing about the barren room again, I had a bizarre notion
that like the protagonist in the play, No
Exit, I, too, had been sentenced to an eternity in Hell in a brightly
lighted cell along with several other naked, despicable people. Only in my
case, my constant companions were all different versions of me. Sartre had it
wrong when he had one of his characters remark, Hell is other people. True Hell was never being able to escape from
one’s self.
No sooner did I insert a sheet of paper in the Olympia
typewriter than ghostly images of familiar faces began appearing in my mind’s
eye. My task seemed overwhelming, and I hardly knew how to start. At that
moment Ophelia’s sweet face came to the fore.
Let the
world know what happened, she implored. Only you know the full truth.
When I blinked my eyes, preparing to respond, Jim Jones, a
younger and more dynamic version of himself, with his mountain of carefully
coifed black hair, appeared, nudging Ophelia off my mental screen. Even in my
own mind, he hogged the limelight. Go
ahead, tell the story, I almost could hear him say, but you better make sure it meets with my approval. If it doesn’t, I’ll
turn you into a slime mold on your next reincarnation. I had heard him make
this threat before to others. Now, on his face, I could see the hint of a
smile. Since his eyes weren’t visible through his tinted glasses, I couldn’t
tell if he meant what he said or was toying with me again.
“My first contact with the Reverend Jim Jones,” I began to
write, “took place on ….”.
© Arnold Ludwig, 2010
(Arnold Ludwig is an Adjunct Professor in the Department of Psychiatry & Human Behavior at Brown University. He may be reached at Arnold_Ludwig@brown.edu.)
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